my cupped hands

Every now and then I bring you up in fondness, 

the things you taught me, the stories you shared, 

how you taught me to not rhyme 

and to walk on the ground with my feet bare. 

I remember the nights I would cry during dinner,

my terrible recitation of multiplication tables... 

I remember your stern gaze when I would talk back at Ma, 

the softness in your eyes when we would go out for walks, 

I remember your cheerful voice calling for me at your return, 

the way you praised my omelettes even though they always burned.

But sometimes I forget your face. I have to strain 

to remember the creases that caressed your forehead 

and the tinge of yellow in your cornea faint. 

I can't remember the way your voice sounded 

even though I remember the exact words, 

and sometimes I'm scared 

that I'm wrong about that too.

I can hear the "burrah!" but not your dance, 

the way you said "I love you" but not your demands... 

I worry that your memories flow like water through my cupped hands. 

the friend you used to love, she is still here

Rarely do I shine a torch on my guilt.

I feel sorry for not having tried harder. 

Sometimes I wonder how much we drifted apart,

how close we were until I slowly broke your heart.

Alas, I did not realize it then. You forgave me many times. 

Brutal it is when I text you now

"How are you? How's family?" and hear nothing back. 

I want you to know and believe

that you were heard and seen, 

maybe not then, but certainly right now.

I am sorry for having been a stupid cow. 

If I could turn the hands of time, 

I would change the lines and make us rhyme. 

But all I have now is this poem on my blog, 

not a conversation with two, just a monologue. 

You used to come here when we were friends, 

I hope you come again and know that I want to amend. 

True friends are hard to find, 

and I have been blind. 

I am sorry that I took you for granted in the past, 

I was selfish and assumed our friendship would just last. 

I want you to know this fact, and hold it dear:

The friend you used to love, she is still here. 

i am sorry things have to be this way

I felt shunned

when you sat with your back

facing me

have you forgotten what we have

experienced together?

I wonder why you are here

Is your health okay?

I wish I could ask you.

Even after all the darkness

a part of me still cares.

I hope you will be okay

I will go now, I will get on with my day

I am sorry that things have to be this way

To Live in Your Dreams

 In the middle of August, a storm of great strength comes, 

the wind whistles, the birds warn, yet the old man hums; 

Sat across his garden with trees bellowing, 

his face serene with its lines mellowing, 

he fears not a thing, not what the storm shall bring. 

Staring into the puddle of water beside, 

he sees the reflection of roses, and then his beautiful wife; 

And all in the world, the wind, the whirl, ceases to be seen, 

for the ghost love of his life is now more than just a dream. 

She smiles at him, waves run across her face from the rain, 

but she is just as he remembered, she hasn’t aged a day,

thunder cackles above him, winds blow faster, 

birds fly away even farther; 

but all in the world, the wind, the whirl, has ceased to be seen, 

so of what importance is reality, when you can live in your dreams?

We had to grow up

I was talking with my friend about the games we used to play,

friction car races and spinning beyblades,

not one ounce of care about reaching home late,

because those games were our life, and that's where we would stay.

We would be sad about our friend not giving us candy,

or not being invited to a mutual friend's party,

we weren't angry about playing with people from different backgrounds, because frankly-

We didn't care.

When we were young, our language was not words,

words like “aaaaah” “YAAAAY” “hahahaha” were merely sounds that were not understood as consonants,

but as emotions.

Fights were about playing hide & seek or Tag you're It,

not about who liked and commented on whose post, all that shit.

When we were young and immature,

we would get sad if our jokes were not laughed upon,

now we are sad if somebody laughs on a joke cracked by our friend.

Being children, we would angrily pout if our friend dropped our cup,

now we are angry because our friend deliberately threw the cup to break it.

This was our life,

But we had to grow up.